I just read an interview with George R. R. Martin, the author of the book series upon which the HBO series, Game of Thrones is based. This guy is being compared to Tolkien in terms of the grand scale and polished quality of his work. Fans and critics agree that he's a giant among writers. Based on the little I've seen of an episode from the series, I don't believe his stories are really to my taste, but that's not the issue. He's hailed as one of the great writers of our time.
That's why I was excited to read what he said about his writing process. His is almost identical to mine. He starts his day reviewing, revising, and editing the work he did the day before, eventually moving on to new writing. His words were like I wrote them when he said that the editing gives him momentum to start writing new material.
And the weird part is that my process grew completely organically. I didn't read about different approaches to writing and decide this was the best one. It just generated itself. It happened without my even making a conscious choice about it.
Now, before anyone gets the wrong idea, I am in no way trying to compare myself to a well-known, celebrated author. I'm talking about how we write, not the quality of our work. I'm just excited to know that my process is so similar to that of someone who has proven to be successful already. It gives me hope that I'm on the right track.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Just subscribed to Writer's Digest so I got a free link to the online version of the November/December issue. One article talked about a poetic form, the nonet. I'd never heard of it, which makes sense, I guess, since the article said it was a relatively new form with no known origin. But it consists of nine lines with a descending number of syllable in each line. The first has nine, the second eight, and so on until the last line, which has one syllable. I thought I would give it a try, but didn't know what to write about until I looked outside at the bleak wintry landscape. It prompted this:
March is coming in like a lion.
Wish it were more like a warm lamb.
The soft white snow flutters still
and coats the hardened ground.
Seems it will not end.
But hope abides
deep down in
Hope you find your spring.